Page 7 of Dirty Love

KADE

“This game’s too easy,” Nicky mutters, leaning back against my headboard with his knees spread out wide and his gray hood pulled over his head.

He changed back into his sweats as soon as we got home and he’s been quiet ever since, same way he is every Sunday thanks to Father Paul and his bullshit preach about how dirty it is for boys to kiss boys. We don’t really believe or anything like that, but I know it sucks to feel like he’d be hated by everyone he knows for something he can’t change or control.

He won’t be hated, because he promised me he’ll never tell anyone else, but still…

Realizing he’s probably cold, I reach over and grab him the throw blanket from the bottom of my bed, lying it out over the bottom half of his body. It’s not like we can’t afford heat, but our dad’ll go off on us if we keep it on all night while he’s at work.

“It’s not easy, Nicky, you’re just a fuckin’ nerd,” I point out, taking a slice of pizza from the box between us.

He snorts at that, shaking his head at me with a small smile. “Fuck off.”

I laugh to myself and keep playing with my free hand, side-eyeing him when he leans over me to grab the half smoked joint from the nightstand. He’s practically lying on top of me, his chest resting on my abs through our clothes, his soft hair just inches from my face. I tense but he pretends not to notice, staying like that while he takes my lighter to burn the tip. As soon as he’s done, he moves back to where he was before and takes a couple long hits, but then the fucker leans over me again to grab the ashtray he forgot the first time. I snatch the collar of his hoodie and shove him back against the headboard, tossing everything he could possibly need on his lap for easy access. He rolls his lips together and looks up at me, bravely holding my eyes as he blows a cloud of smoke out towards my face.

“Thank you,” he says, the infuriating little brat.

I make a sound and he laughs at me, rolling his eyes when I steal the joint from his hand and tip my chin at the pizza box. “Eat some more.”

“I don’t want any more.”

“I don’t care if you want it or not.”

He pouts a little bit and I crook my finger, motioning for him to come closer. He does as he’s told and I lift a slice up to his mouth, enjoying the way he opens for me without argument. He takes a bite and I watch him closely, unable to tear my eyes away from his pouty lips while he chews it.

“Good boy,” I whisper, not missing the way his breath shakes on an exhale.

I know I shouldn’t play with him like this—that I shouldn’t play with him period—but he barely touches food anymore and it pisses me off.

At least this way I know he’s eating, even if it means using his own body against him to make him do it.

As soon as he’s finished, I move back and reach for a napkin, freezing when he catches my wrist to stop me. I raise a brow and he hits me with a tiny little smirk, slowly pulling my hand back to his mouth, my fingers brushing the skin just below his lips.

“Nicky…” I warn, but I can’t bring myself to tell him no.

My heart is racing and my dick is hard and I’m fucking dying to find out what he’ll do next.

Still smirking like the goddamn devil in my baby brother’s body, he leans up on one elbow until he’s facing me fully, then he slips his tongue out and licks the sauce from my thumb, swirling it around to make sure he gets it all. I groan before I can stop it and he takes that as an invitation, dipping his head to take my middle fingers into his mouth.

Fuck.

“Nicky,” I rasp, barely recognizing the sound of my own voice. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer that—because he’s too busy deep throating my fucking hand—but I swear I can almost hear the thought running through his head.

Showing you I can do it better than her.

His teeth graze my knuckles and I’m about to do something I shouldn’t, like pin him down and choke him until he’s gagging for me, but then I hear a car door slam outside and snap myself out of it. I rip my fingers from his mouth and jump up to my feet, discreetly adjusting my cock in my jeans as I walk over to the window. I peek through the blinds and look outside, relieved when I realize it’s not our dad coming home early, just one of the neighbors across the street.

“Is it him?”

“No,” I answer, using the front of my jeans to wipe his saliva from my fingers.

Jesus.

I shake my head to clear it and then walk back over to him, both of us thinking the same thing but never saying it out loud, never giving it a voice.

We push our luck in the dark, when no one’s around to witness how fucked up we are beneath the surface.

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